


Conflict of Solace

by whatamidoingherequestionmarkquestionmark



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Religious Conflict, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatamidoingherequestionmarkquestionmark/pseuds/whatamidoingherequestionmarkquestionmark
Summary: *i wrote this fic before even watching season three so it's riddled with inaccuracies and my own dumb assumptions, most of the plot is based off of spoilers i've seen, enjoy fuckers!*so Appleman didn't die because i saw a spoiler about it and i didn't like it, instead he left to go rejoin his old christian faith, Boring! he's at war with himself, unsure whether he made the right decision or not, and before you ask, yes, his major conflict is his feelings for a certain viking underwear model, it's very gay so just read it.creative criticism welcome, unnecessary hate will be ignored, don't like don't read, i don't have time for mindless hate.





	1. wayward son

**Author's Note:**

> chapters will vary in length, this first one is short, just a taste so you can decide if want to keep reading or not, it is a long fic.

I wake to the sound of the thunder breaking, outside the window the lightning lights up the sky. My fingers wrap around my cross, I look up, through the ceiling to god, but as the thunder crashes down I can still hear Thor.  
It seems my time with the Northmen still haunts me. My time with Ragnar. I press my cross into my palm hard, I cannot think of him, the one that led me astray from my lord.  
It's been two years, I have returned to England and found a place in a monastery far from my old monastery where they found me, where he found me.  
When I first came here claiming to be a priest, no one would believe me. Why would they? My hair was long, a full beard sprouting up around my mouth, a strange attachment to a Celtic armband and an ax secured to my belt. I looked like a Viking and perhaps I was one, back then at least. But no Viking can recite Corinthians word for word, no Viking knows how to pray. Perhaps Ragnar remembers, though I never had much of a chance to teach him.  
Again I think of him and I don't sleep for the rest of the night, I sit by my window and hear the thunder roll, watch the lightning chase itself across the sky. 

*****

Breakfast is simple, there is no fatty meats or root vegetables, no mead, only oatmeal and tepid water. Mass is shortly after, though it doesn't end shortly, it seems I've lost my patience, another consequence of living among Vikings, of being a Viking. Every time they say god my treacherous mind whispers Odin, sings the names of the Norse gods, screams the Viking battle cries.  
I march myself to confession after mass, my feet have other plans and it takes all my strength to force them into the booth. I know where I want to be, by the sea, the wet sand coating my heavy leather boots with my ax swaying at my side, waiting for a boat with red sails. Instead I sit and wait for my commands like a good son of god.  
'You may confess your sins now my brother.' confirms the elder priest, Brother John, from behind the wicker screen.  
I have committed more sins than I care to count, I have murdered, I have drank myself stupid and I have fucked, and I have also found myself pining for the most unnatural desire that I will not name, not even in the sanctity of my thoughts. I have not confessed to any of these, I know the punishment my god will grant, and that wasn't even me, that was the Viking and I have since been reborn.  
'Brother I must confess, I have fallen to vanity once more.' it isn't a complete lie, if not for brother Lucas keeping me in check I would've left my hair to grow out once more, I miss my locks and my scraggly beard.  
'We shave for a reason, brother.'  
'I know,' I interrupt too quickly and silently curse my rudeness. 'I know, brother, and I will serve god in whichever manner he wishes me to, I just...' I can't bring myself to finish that sentence, my holy brothers would never understand.  
Brother John sighs like he already knows, 'our life is that of sacrifice, brother, we must detach ourselves from the things we want, it is the only true way to serve god.' I have, please understand, I have detached myself from what I want, from who I want, I crossed a fucking ocean to remove myself from my desires. And now I need to repent for my cursing, even in my own head it is against god's wishes, though many things in my head are against god's wishes and I haven't repented for any of them yet.  
'Three hail Mary's for your sin of vanity, brother.'  
'Thank you brother.'  
The younger priests sometimes work up the nerve to ask me about my time with the Vikings, about my time as a Viking. I shouldn't blame them, they are new to a life of simplicity and sacrifice, they will never know adventure, the adrenaline of the battle, the wet between a woman's legs, the passion of a friendship forged in the heat of constant mortal danger. But as much as they pry I will never tell them a thing, I must bury my past if I wish to rejoin my god. I must bury Ragnar deep in the depths of the Viking's wretched soul, then take that soul and drown it in the ocean where it belongs.  
After confession I go to pray, what else can I do?


	2. My nightmares dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do enjoy dream sequences, this will not be the only one, next chapter will be published either tonight or tomorrow morning.

I can't stop dreaming about him.  
The twigs snap beneath my feet and the icy air tingles my face where my beard does not cover. My breath is short and my heart pounds, I'm heading down to the river.   
'Why are you going there?' asks a tree as I pass by it.  
'I have to... there's something I need to do, there's something I need...'   
deeper into the thick of the forest, I can hear the water rushing.  
'Do you think you know, boy?' Thor whispers in the breeze, faeries tug on my curls.   
Something tickles my nose, a lock of dirty golden hair.   
There's leaves in my hair, dirt on my skin, the chilled metal of my arm band kisses my wrist, and I can feel Ragnar's breath on my neck. I am home.   
Cold and wet engulfs my feet, I'm standing in the river now, heavy arms wrap around my body. Home, here, home.   
'We should go. They'll be coming for us.'  
'Where do you want to go?'   
I take his hand in mine where it rests on my chest, 'I have to go back, across the sea.'  
'You're leaving me again? Already?'  
'Not just yet, I can stay here a little while longer.'  
No I can't, there is something telling me this is wrong, but that voice is neurotic, irrational, not worth listening to.  
'Do you want to leave?'  
I drink in the smell of sweat, leather, the metallic blood, and I am home, here, home. Why do I want to leave?  
'No... but I must.'  
'Why?'  
I try to speak but my voice stops in my throat, because all that'll come out would be an incoherent moan, he's moved a hand to my hip. I don't have anything to say to the question, I don't know the answer, why do I have to leave?  
'To be safe.' I say weakly and I don't know why I say it, I know how to fight, I can look after myself, I am a Viking.   
'I'll keep you safe, if anyone hurts you, we'll kill them, together.'   
Something is calling to me from beyond the water, something foreboding and poisonous, it's going to make me wrong.   
'I'm staying... I'll never leave you... I...'  
'I love you.' I can feel the whisper in the shell of my ear, like a ghost caressing the intricate folds of ligament  
You're leaving.  
No I'm not, I don't want to.  
You made your choice, priest.  
I am not a priest. 'I am a Viking.'  
Ragnar chuckles, the puffing breath warming my neck, tickling. I turn into him, he's so warm in the frosted air.  
You're leaving now, time to go pray, priest.  
Shut up. 'I'm a Viking, I'm a Viking, I'm a Viking.' I breath the words into Ragnar's bare chest, he strokes my hair.  
You're dreaming, priest.  
No.  
I look up, to tell Ragnar I love him, but he's not there, neither are the trees, the sky, the water disappears from my feet and so does the earth below it. I fall into black space. I fall and I keep falling and I scream out his name but it's lost in the oblivion.

*****

When I wake I'm drowning in my own sweat and I can't breathe. Can't breathe, I'm cooking in a furnace. I fling off the scratchy bed clothes and scramble to my chamber's window, I slam it open so hard it almost comes off its hinge. I guess I still have strength left from my days as a Viking. From his days as a Viking, because Viking Athelstan and priest Athelstan are two completely different people.   
That dream, that was the Viking's dream, because I am a priest and I love my god, I'd never defile his commands so pervertedly.  
Liar.  
Resist what you want, that is how you serve your god. I am a priest, I am sinner, I am a cynic, but I am not a Viking and I am not in love with Ragnar.  
Liar, Liar, Liar!   
It's still too hot in here, and I'm thinking too much. I check myself, clothed with my cross above my heart. I make my way out and down the rows of dormitories, they're deathly quiet. Going down the spiral staircase is dizzying and dark, like falling down into the abyss again.   
As I leave the stairwell I'm blinded by the light outside but when I close my eyes against it I see his face. I open my lids immediately and find the courtyard stretched out before me, bright under a high sun, I've slept well into the morning, damn.   
The dining hall is empty, save for brother Aeon, an 82 year old priest who should really be dead by now, still eating his oatmeal. He's a man whose survived so long, has so many stories, I should show him some respect. But the Viking still whispers to me, tells me his stories would be boring and he's only lived this long because he's never encountered real danger not once in his life, tells me I need not respect a man whose won no battle. So I glide past him and make my way to the church.   
As I walk down the gravel path I feel the pads of my feet sting and scrape, I realise I'm without my sandals. Not that they're very adequate, through them I still feel the sharp points of rocks, bugs still bite my feet and they go numb in the cold. The thick leather of Viking boots could protect my feet from anything, but I am not a Viking.  
When I reach the church my feet are bleeding and that's good, stinging, distracting. The chapel doors are closed tight and there's chanting coming from inside, far be it from me to interrupt, I'm not even sure I want to. I take a seat on the church steps and listen to the chanting from outside, the outsider that I am.  
I'm not an outsider! I belong here! I want to scream, why am I so torn on this? I know what I am, who I am, I saw god, I am meant to be a priest!  
I need a stiff drink, but a priest does not drink. A Viking does.  
There's a vineyard behind the old church that was partially burned down several years back, and there's three full levels of wine cellars beneath the dormitories, and sure, wine isn't anything like the lethal concoctions the Viking's drink but that makes me feel a little better. I'm not a Viking, just a bad priest.   
I'm up and running, I don't know why I run but it feels good, the struggle for breath and the ache in my neglected legs.   
I don't have to worry about being caught, everyone's at mass, everyone but good old Aeon, and I doubt his ancient eyes even see me as I fly by.  
Back into the spiral and down, down, down. Half way down there's a fresh torch waiting with flint resting on a rock ledge beside it. I light the torch and I'm back on my way, plummeting into the darkness.  
It's spooky down here, my feet get caught in soft, sticky things, cobwebs, and break broken glass. I have to stop, pull a horrifying large point of glass from my foot, and then keep going. My feet smear blood across the marble floor and sting like bloody hell, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters. God's rage can wait.  
I pick out two bottles from the first cellar, through no careful selection or consideration, I just grab the first two I see and make my way back upstairs, back from the abyss. I snuff out the torch at the halfway point and return it to it's holster on the wall, I slip the bottles of wine beneath my robes and go out into the light.  
I already know where I'm going to spend the night drinking these bottles, the old church, no one goes there. The younger priests believe people died there in the fire and that those spirits are still lingering, restless. But I know better, no one died there and even if someone had, spirits do not linger.  
It's strange, wandering the quarters whilst everyone else is cooped up in the church. It's so quiet, so still, I hate it.   
The door to the old church has been nailed shut, but the front window is smashed in so I climb through it on my bleeding feet.   
It's in the back corner of the church, behind the burnt black statue of the holy virgin Mary, where I pop open the first bottle and try to drink away my other life.


	3. you don't need fun to have alcohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heavy drinking and a cheap excuse to write some softcore smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight demonizing of the christian god, not my true feelings, just befits my fic

'Fuck you Ragnar!' I scream, safe in the knowledge that this old church is set far from the dormitories and other places my brothers may inhabit, and daring in the hazy knowledge that I am piss drunk. I look up to the massive marble cross that stands on the alter, one of the few things spared by the fire, my world rocks like a ship in a storm. 'You did this to me!' I keep screaming, trying to conjure his face in my mind, which is easy, it's a face I'll remember even if I forget my own. 'You made me into this... this wretch!' the edges of my vision are blurring, I take another swig from the wine bottle, in truth I hate wine but it's alcohol and I'm angry so I guess it doesn't really matter if I like it or not. 'I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!' I fall to my knees, everything is spinning, I fall back.

*****

I wake with a start, snapping to sit up bolt straight, panting. I take in my surroundings, I'm covered in furs, I'm beside a crackling fire, in a hut, our hut, his hand has slipped from my chest to my stomach. I look down to find intense, beautiful blue eyes gazing at me with so much fear and concern I have to hang my head in shame. My lover, he has so many things to worry about without me adding on my ridiculous nightmares. Because that's all that was, a nightmare, that wasn't real.  
'What is wrong?'  
'Nothing, a bad dream.' but my hand still finds his and squeezes.  
He sits up beside me and kisses my shoulder, everywhere we make contact tingles, I’ve never been so alive, if I go to hell for this I'm going with a huge fucking grin on my face.   
'About...' he's so expectant when he asks for things that it's not actually asking, there's never any question, you'll tell him whatever he wants to know, give him whatever he wishes you to give.   
I stay silent but I already know that won't do me any good.  
He kisses my neck, earlobe, cheek, our rough beards creating delicious, tickling friction that I don't know how I ever lived without.   
'I dreamt... you remember those years ago when I saw god?'  
'You said you were leaving.' his arms wrap around my body a little possessively, but I like it. I stroke his hair in return, to soothe, to remind him I stayed, I'm here, to remind myself of that.   
'I had a dream that you never convinced me to stay, I was living some other life, back across the sea, I was a priest again, living in a monastery... I was trying to fight my feelings for you.'   
He stirs at that, clutching at my skin, 'why?' he asks shakily, his fears and vulnerabilities betraying him, no man, nor woman is fearless, no Viking is invulnerable.   
I had never explained that part of my old faith to him, how that god despises love yet claims to be the well of the emotion.   
'Why would you fight your feelings for me?'  
Among Vikings it really depends where you sit on the food chain, gods have nothing to do with it. If you are feeble and low in social standing then you may be persecuted, however if you are as powerful and fear inspiring as Ragnar you can fuck whoever you want and others know better than to fuck with you because of it.   
'Never, my love, in the real world I never will, it was just a dream, an awful dream.'  
He takes my chin, tilts it gently, just so I look into his eyes. His eyes, they break my heart a little every time I swim in them.   
'I love you.'  
I place his hand over my heart and press it into my chest, 'I love you.'. How could I ever be so scared of that? My old god is wrong, this isn't sin, this is love like any other and it's mine and I will not be blamed for being happier than I ever have been.  
He kisses me softly, takes my bottom lip into his mouth, and bites down hard and sharp. I taste the acute twang of my own blood in my mouth, hot and bitter, but I smile at him any way, because this is normal, real, this is how we play.  
'Then stop having such stupid dreams.'   
Laughter rises in my chest, bubbles from my mouth, his fears leave his face and he appears smug and self-satisfied once more. I should hit him, reset everything back to normal.  
I pounce, pushing him back down into the furs, we skinned these ourselves last summer. I straddle his huge body and dig my gnarled nails into his shoulders for good measure, but it only makes him excited. Even as blood wells around my fingers, and I smear it over his warm skin, he becomes ever more aroused, his smirk is still there but his eyes are now intense and hungry. Because he's a Viking, and in the Nordic world of violence and chaos, pain only leads to pleasure.   
I never left when I saw god, Ragnar told me he loved me and so I stayed, I did more than that, I threw him into the nearest wall and had my way with him. We've never kept it secret, in the early days it always shocked me when he'd kiss me among throngs of people, now I could care less if he sucked me off while an assembly watched.   
We built a hut by the sea, just inland enough to be sheltered from the harsh continental winds, we've raided England through to France, made love on the dining tables of nobles and fucked in the gardens of royals whilst clad in their jewels and fine clothes. It's only been two years yet I feel as though I've already lived three life times, and it's still not long enough. I can remember all of our adventures, I can map out all our favorite places in my mind. I can remember when we found each other, and that first rough voyage across the sea, I can remember the snow trapping us inside since yesterday, and I can remember us having sex a few hours ago under the pretense of keeping warm.   
'Are you okay?'  
I've been side tracked by my thoughts again, forgotten that I'm sitting atop a great warrior whose patience with me is surprising considering the unattended erection pressing against my spine.  
I can respond verbally, or I can give him no more than a smirk for an answer and have him at my mercy. I choose the latter.  
I kiss his lips, which are still swollen from earlier activities, then make my way down. I feel the pulse in his throat beating under my tongue, run my teeth along his collar bones, when he moves to sit up I push him back down, because he is mine to do as I please with.   
From then on he does what I want, remains pliant and malleable. I'm more than happy to exploit the current advantage I have over him, return the favor he did me a few hours ago, biting into my neck and shoulders whilst riding me hard and sure, owning me with little remorse. But after the nightmare I just want to hold him, care for him, feel him for what he is; real, true, here. So I spread his legs and kneel between them.   
When Ragnar and I first began our affair I was naive and in need of an education, so, stupidly, I went to Lagertha who laughed herself to tears. “Why do you need me to teach you about men, Athelstan? You are one yourself, are you not?”. Supposedly, yes, I have all the right parts and all the boorish mannerisms, and I know what I like, but performing what I like on another man was uncharted territory, back then at least. I begged my lovers first wife and once she was done wetting herself from hysterical giggling, she told me. Well, she showed me, with a fat sausage and constant fits of laughter. I began to worry, it didn't look complicated but what if I did it wrong? What if I burst out laughing like poor, manic Lagertha? She punched me in the arm unnecessarily hard and told me not to worry, that it's easy to please a man, I felt slightly offended on behalf of my gender but I kept listening. She told me once I had it I'd have him at my whim and mercy, that men were reduced to helpless, trembling messes by this one simple act. Once she was satisfied with her teaching she hauled me to my feet, I'm no match for her freakish strength now and I wasn't then either, she dragged me by my ear to Ragnar's tent. Inside Ragnar and Rollo were fighting about... something, she threw me down before a very confused Ragnar and pushed Rollo outside despite the large man's angry protests. Before leaving herself, Lagertha turned to Ragnar, “I'll be expecting a thank you later, bring me a gift even.” she winked at me and left. With Lagertha gone I was made to explain myself.   
“Why go to her? Come here, I'll show you how it's done.”.   
We gave her a gift anyway.   
After two years practice I reckon I'm pretty good, and I haven't burst out laughing once. Within minutes my lover's a writhing wretch beneath me and hot fluid fills my mouth. It doesn't taste good but I swallow it anyway because it's his and he is mine, every little part of him.   
I grin devilishly up at his flushed face, there's a special kind of pleasure I take from reducing my strong, fearsome Viking lover to a panting, vulnerable mess. 'Feel better, my love?'  
He grins widely, 'Fuck you.'.  
'Well if you're up for it...' he may laugh at that but I'm dead serious.  
He sits up and this time I let him, meeting his lips when he reaches the top.  
'I'd love to, but you have to go now.' he kisses me then leans back on his hands, watching me expectantly, waiting for me to do something.  
'And where am I supposed to be going in this weather? I can't even get out the door.'.   
There's a cross on the mantle piece that wasn't there before.  
'The door isn't the way out.', he looks so sad all of a sudden and now I'm scared. I can feel myself fading, his beautiful blue iris's melting into the whites of his eyes.   
'Ragnar, what's happening?'. I reach for him and my fingers slip through smoke.  
'Ragnar...'.  
'Goodbye, priest.'  
'Priest?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, another dream sequence, get used to it


	4. the apple and the Jackal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for masturbation   
> i sort of rushed this... sorry....

I wake up with a headache and an uncomfortable erection. I remember, and look around wildly for my lover but all my eyes find are the crumbling church and two empty wine bottles. So that was the dream and this is reality.   
But how can that be? In the dream, my memories were so clear, how could I possibly have dreamt myself another life in such great detail?  
What does any of that matter? No, it doesn't matter how real it felt, how real the sensation of his cock throbbing in my mouth was. Fuck. I can still taste him. When will he stop haunting me? When will I be free of my disgusting lust?  
In my dream it wasn't disgusting, I despised my lord and his commands, the me from that dream would've called on almighty god to watch as he defiled himself.   
I think I envy him.  
Fuck, he's not even real and I still want to be him, curled up with Ragnar in the snowstorm, sure enough in myself to face whatever consequences were coming my way, because I was in love and that was enough.  
Would it ever be enough in the real world?  
Ragnar was absolutely gorgeous beneath me, the dreamt memories I have of him riding me send a throb of sinful pleasure down my spine. I'm too weak to fight it, the dream has put a dent in my absolution and I'm going to drown.  
I look around, but who would be here?  
I slip my hand up my holy robes and right before the great marble cross I jerk myself off to the ghost of him. I'm grinding into his lap. I slip my fingers inside myself and almost choke from the burning sensation. His hands hold my hips firmly, never letting me get too far away. I wish I could feel him, I want him here, now. He's probably freezing to death on that cold island an ocean away. Or maybe he's nice and warm, covered in furs, some undeniably beautiful woman keeping his body temperature up. Hell, perhaps it's another man he's inside of, or has inside of him. Stop. I can't bare the pressure of that thought, I want him for myself. I moan so horrible and loud as I press my fingertips against my insides.   
He's no celibate, I should really accept that he's undoubtedly found someone new to love, he needs someone, someone to take comfort in, don't we all?  
But I can't accept anything while I'm sodomising myself to my dreams memories.   
Memories of a dream, nowhere near as real as I need them to be, tears make slow descents down my cheeks, dripping onto the charred stone floor.   
Father, who art in heaven, help me, please! I going mad, I'm falling apart!  
Odin, if you still watch over me, tell me! What do I do?!  
His eyes are all I see, '...Ragnar.' I whimper and find release, a guilty, filthy release which is barely a fraction of what I want.   
Heavy sobs erupt from my body and I clamp a hand over my mouth, smell myself on my fingers, and cry even harder.  
'Brother?' a voice murmurs from behind me and I whip around. 

*****

Brother Aeon?  
The old man stands a few paces behind me, cane in hand and a solemn look on his face.   
'I.... um...' what do I say? What do I do? This has to be another dream, please, god, let this be another dream.   
But I'm not waking up and the old man is making his way toward me. Hastily I pull my hand away from my softening cock and into the air, trying to wipe away the sticky whiteness on the hem of my inner robes.   
'It's okay, brother, I won't tell a soul.'  
what do you want in return, old man?  
He moves surprisingly quickly for his age, he even has the muscle capacity to too easily sit beside me on the floor, perhaps he's younger than he claims to be.   
His eyes give me a slow once over and he sighs. My cheeks burn red hot and I feel the need to vomit.   
'You've haven't talked to anyone about your life with the Vikings yet have you?'.  
I shake my head and bite my lip in attempt to stop the crying, but then I remember Ragnar biting my lip in the dream and sob harder.   
'I'm sorry, it won't happen again, I'm sorry.'. The words escape my mouth and I'm not sure who I'm speaking to, myself, brother Aeon, or god?  
Brother Aeon doesn't respond and I don't care so I guess it was god who was supposed to be listening.   
A moment of silence passes before Aeon speaks once more, 'have you ever been in love, Athelstan?'.   
I'm going to die.  
'N... no.' I force out, shaking my head side to side wildly.  
'Are you lying?'  
I want to say “no!”, “shut up!”, “fuck off!”, but my mouth remains shut and rapidly filling will saliva. I nod. I dribble onto the floor.  
'Hmm... and what was his name?'  
It's like a physical shock, one that is violent and unrelenting. I stare at him and defend whatever I have that is not already on display, 'who the fuck- that's disgusting, you sick fuck, you think-'. The more I try to defend the more I crumble, the walls around my soul much like the walls of this church. I feel something churn unhappily within me, my teeth clench, cutting off my ranting, I vomit. Sour wine and bodily bile coat the floor before me.   
'Ragnar, right?'  
'Stop... just stop.' stop what? Telling me the truth I'm too cowardly to tell myself?  
'Did he die?'  
What? 'What?'.  
'Mine died.'  
'your what died?' I spit out remnants of sick that have clung on inside my mouth.  
'The love of my life.' oh. I don't care. 'His name was Ajax, he was a diamond thief from Egypt.'. His name? He was?  
'What?'.  
The old man looks at me with a youthful twinkle in his ancient eyes, 'takes one to know one.' his smile is all mischief and for a moment I can almost picture what he looked like as a youth, devilishly handsome, rugged even.   
'You... you're...?' I can't quite believe it.  
'I'm a priest.' he says this with absolution, no qualm, no maybe maybe not. 'But I've lived a long time, and I was a very different person before I came here.' before he came here?  
'But... I thought.'.  
'What? You thought I was born and raised in the priesthood? That I've been here all my life?' old Aeon chuckles.  
'Who are you?' I ask bewildered, the rank smell of sick reaching my nostrils.  
'I told you, I'm a priest.'.  
'Who were you?' I correct myself.  
My brother sighs and puts a hand on my back, pulls a gourd out from beneath his robes and proffers it to me. I drink from it, thank god it's only water, I feel a little better, less dizzy.  
'A squire, at first, from an old family of celebrated knights and war heroes. My father was head of the king's personal guard.'.  
'Which king?'.  
'Does it matter? They're all the same.'.  
No they're not.  
'I myself, though I don't desire to bore you with my boasting, was quite exceptional for a squire, my father was proud and my lady mother did not spare my siblings from her favouritism of me.' he pauses, thinking slowly, his age coming back to him. 'I was going places, a great knight, by the age of fifteen I had already earned the name “Aeon the bold”... but then he came.' and I lose Aeon to his memories for a minute, maybe two.   
'Brother?'.  
His eyes focus on the real world once more, they are now glassy with tears. 'Oh, Athelstan... he was wonderful. He showed me how wrong my life truly was, and then he saved me from it. He'd steal the jewels, he had the quickest little hands... I protected him, killed those who came for him... we travelled the world...'.  
'And you loved him?' of course he did, I can see the sad longing in his misty eyes, the lips open and mouth parch dry from dreams that died too soon.   
'More than-' he chokes on a sob, 'when he died a part of me died with him, a large part.'.   
'How did he... if you don't mind me asking?' what if Ragnar died? What if he already was dead? Panic rises in my abdomen.  
The old man laughed mirthlessly and full of sorrow. 'His... lifestyle finally caught up with him, and this time I couldn't protect him. He stole a diamond tiara from a Persian princess and they caught him. Tell me, Athelstan, you are better travelled than most, have you ever been to Persia? Have you seen the vaults where they keep their prisoners?'.  
'No, I can't say I have.' a recently dead saint once offered to take me there, but I had declined.  
'Well I'll tell you, the Persian prisons are completely impenetrable, I tried everything, even went to sorcerers, but to no avail... they took his head after holding him captive for two weeks.'. I can see Aeon trying to fight his tears, his face contorting and his fists clenching, I put a hand on his knee to stable him. 'I saw him die before my eyes and there was nothing I could do, he held my eyes right until his head hit the floor.'.   
I want to say something to him, but there's nothing I can say, nothing I can do, so I just keep him talking, 'how long were the two of you together?'.  
Aeon wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, 'longer than we expected to be.' he sniffles loudly. 'Me and my Ajax made it over thirty years before he finally got caught. Serves us right, I guess, we grew foolish and arrogant enough to think we'd grow old together, we were going to buy an island in the Mediterranean with the spoils of our thievery...'.  
He's choking up, I hand back the gourd and he drinks deeply. He clearly doesn't want to say any more and I won't push, poor fuckers' been through enough.   
'His name's Ragnar... I'm pretty sure he's still alive...'.  
'A Viking?'  
I bring my knees into my chest, preparing myself for breaking apart. I nod. 'I was a priest of Lindisfarne.'  
'That was the first place the Vikings raided in the west, was it not?'  
'Yes.' the memories come back to me, trickling into my concious thought. 'They came by a single boat, a small group of them with plenty weapons and blood lust... they killed most of my brothers, plundered our royalties, I hid... they found me, this great brute Rollo, Ragnar's brother, cornered me.' I shudder at the memory. 'Just when I thought I was going to die... he saved me, he... was interested in me... I don't know why, he wanted someone to teach him about the west, and he seemed strangely insistent on that person being me.'.  
Aeon chuckled knowingly, I look at him and smile, god I was clueless. I was only a priest. 'He spared me, took me as a slave and dragged me back across the ocean along with several of my brothers. When he approached his king with the spoils from our monastery he was scrutinised and robbed, the king allowed him to keep only one treasure of his choosing. He chose me.'.   
'What does he look like?'  
It's such an unexpected question, I laugh. I'm reminded of the virgin girls of Kattegat, twelve year olds, fourteen year olds, giggling and whispering to each other beneath their hands whilst gazing longingly at the unspoken for warriors.   
So here we are, everything I have done has led me here. Sitting in a burnt down church with an old priest, gossiping about boys.   
'Very tall, blonde, strong but lean.' I indulge the old man and myself, it's just too good. To allow myself this, these memories, a moment of freedom from the lords judgement.   
'Mmm, yes I always preferred lean, though I'll admit I've never had a strong attraction to blondes.'  
'You don't know what you're missing.' I retort. '...I've seen him naked, I'll admit that was a little intimidating. Not because I was jealous, because... how was I supposed to handle that?' But I wasn't supposed to, I was supposed to be his friend and advisor, nothing more. Except he had wanted it to be more and I had been to naive to notice.  
Old Aeon laughs, 'Believe me boy, men aren't hard to handle... well, they are, but only in a physical sense.'  
if there had been water in my mouth I would've choked on it.   
'Tell me, brother-'  
'Aeon.'  
'Aeon. What are you doing here? You speak so freely of such things in god's own home, I'm beginning to doubt your devotion to your faith.'  
Aeon gazes at me for a long moment, his eyes studying, calculating, growing solemn once more. 'I am devoted to my faith, quietly loyal. I do not care so much for the Christian god. Ajax taught me the names of the Egyptian gods and goddesses, showed me how to worship them, and to this day I still do.'  
I think of Odin, Thor, Loki.   
'I came here for sanctuary, disguise, I was wanted in Egypt, Persia, everywhere. They hunted me down like dogs, hungry for my blood.'   
'Blood thirsty mutts would never dare to commit brutal murder in a house of god.'  
'They would, he's not their god...' the Vikings had no care for the Christian god when they stormed my old monastery. 'But to this day this is still the last place they think I'd be. Besides, they wouldn't recognise me any more, grief has deteriorated what great figure there once was...'.  
I don't know how to reply to that, so I let the silence stretch itself out in the space I do not fill.  
I have one last question to ask, ' do you regret it?'.  
He sighs long and heavy, like he's been expecting this question from the start but still doesn't have an answer. 'Yes and no. What would I have been without him? But to not have to feel like this... there’s no pain I know that's greater having the greatest thing that has ever happened to you be ripped away...'   
There's so much raw pain in his voice, he wants to die, but he made a promise, so he waits.   
'I love him.' I finally admit it, and it's not even to the right person.  
'I know.'  
'I hate it.'   
'I know.'  
But what do I do with that? Do I go to the beach and wait? And wait and wait and wait on the vague hope the Vikings return and that Ragnar is with them, because if he isn't they'd surely kill me.   
And what if he was among them, would he even want to see me? I abandoned him, he told me he loved me and turned my back on him and crossed an ocean, he must hate me, I do.   
But I don't care, I don't. I love him and if he doesn't want to see me I'll get on my knees and make him change his mind.  
And what of your god, priest?   
I saw him, I saw god, how can I turn my back on that? Would I regret it? More than I regret leaving Ragnar?   
'Take some time to think, Athelstan, the choices we must make in this life are cruel, and meant to test our strength of character. Either choice will bring you both happiness and misery, as will every choice in life. It's up to you to decipher which you prefer.'   
I nod and clench my jaw.


	5. high and lonesome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, i was lazy with it, i'm going to hell, enjoy!

He wakes to the squawking of a crow and the smell of rot, he turns to look at the other side of the bed, empty. Two years and not a lot has happened since his heart was ripped from his chest.   
Today they set sail, further west then ever before. He can't be distracted by his bleeding heart. This is important, so important, he cannot fail his people.   
It's time to go, Bjorn will be waiting.   
He crawls from his bed and drags on the clothes he was wearing yesterday, and the day before, he hasn't bathed in two weeks. As he leaves his bedroom he looks back to the lonely bed where he's spent the last to years dreaming of another life and fucking dark haired strangers, closing his eyes and pretending he was with someone else. He leaves.   
He eats smoked fish with near stale bread and sloppily slugs down half a pint of ale. Bjorn appears at the door.  
'Father.'  
'Son.'  
He finishes his food and gets to his feet, it's time to go, move while you're still alive. 'Is all the inventory packed?'.  
'And accounted for.' Bjorn replies readily, remember when he was a sweet, freckle face boy? Now he stands like a soldier, and he looks like warrior from legend.   
'Right. I suppose we should set sail then.'  
'I'll tell mother to begin releasing the sails.'  
'And have Rollo ready the raiding party.'  
Bjorn stops dead in his track back out the door. 'Father, not to doubt you, but is it wise to bring uncle with us? The two of you haven't been very friendly lately...'  
His son has the right making this point, the last raid he had invited his brother to had been a mess because of their bickering. Many had died because of their reckless feud, whatever that one was about, the current concerned Ragnar's love life which, as Ragnar is determined to make clear, is none of Rollo's concern.  
Are you still brooding over that pansy Christian fucker, brother?  
Yes.   
'Perhaps not. But we need him.' it's no lie either, Rollo has been holding stronger sway over the warriors as of late, which is troublesome and must remedied soon, but Ragnar doesn't have the time right now so he'll settle for exploiting the man instead.   
'As you wish, father.'  
No Bjorn, nothing is as I wish, not any more.  
Sometimes he wonders if Athelstan's god is looking down at him, and laughing.   
Mockery in his voice, Ragnar can swear he hears him saying “you actually thought you could claim my son's loyalty? That you could have him for your own? That he'd even want you?”.   
Fuck you, Ragnar wants to scream, he would've been mine, he was supposed to be! But you- you are a selfish and jealous god, you'd rather have your sons shackled to you than let them fly free.   
Sometimes the thought of Athelstan flying with the aid of gaudy angel wings amuses Ragnar when he's delirious from too much drink.   
Oh Athelstan, why did you do this to me?  
You fucker. Ragnar throws his goblet across the room and cringes at the loud clattering it makes when it hits the south wall. He doesn't feel any better, he clenches his fists and steps outside, mentally readying himself for the rough sea voyage to come. 

*****

Bjorn is still uncomfortable around his uncle, he can't settle in the man's looming presence like he used to.   
Lagertha is already at work on the ships sails, a crowd of young shield maidens watching her with awe, as they should, Lagertha is great woman, worthy of respect and admiration. Rollo is a great warrior, but this is a compensation for his inability to be a great man.  
Bjorn approaches with confidence, complete self-assurance, he knows his uncle will respond better to the arrogance of a warrior than the caution of a diplomat.  
'Ah, Bjorn, is your father free? I'd love to have a word with him before we set sail.'  
No, bad idea.  
'I am afraid it is you who is not free, uncle.' Bjorn keeps his chin out and posture strong, Rollo is still taller than him, but not by much. 'Your brother asks that you'll ready the warriors.'  
'And he can't ask me to do this himself?'  
Rollo finds his anger so readily these days, but he tries to hide it, so that's something at least.  
'He's a busy man.' Bjorn levels his voice, hoping it doesn't shake. Bjorn is not afraid of much, not any more, but he'd rather not get caught in a fight with his uncle. The man is huge and Bjorn hasn't dared to test how he'd fair in a fight against him.   
'Yeah? Busy still mourning the loss of his cock sucking god whore.' Rollo spits.  
Bjorn had never understood of course, not when he was young, what it was that his father found so damn fascinating about that priest. It was only after Athelstan had left to rejoin his faith that Bjorn had finally seen. His father spent nights alone, drinking and barely eating, and during the day he was so quiet, a ghost of his former self with sunken eyes.  
Bjorn is still torn on how he should feel, about his father being a- doesn't matter, Athelstan is long gone and he's not coming back.  
'Let it go, uncle.' Bjorn warns and Rollo glares back hard.  
'How can I? My brother is a lowly wretch, howling over lost...' he struggles for a word.  
'Love?'  
Rollo spits. 'Even if two men could love one another, Athelstan never felt for my brother, he destroyed him and then abandoned him, I should've killed that coward when I had the chance.'  
Perhaps, but that's not how things happened and we can't turn back time.   
'Ready the warriors, uncle.' Bjorn doesn't dare look away, he holds, keeps steady, commanding respect like the great man his father once was.   
Rollo backs down first and Bjorn feels a swell of pride in himself.   
Bjorn makes his way to the ship and climbs aboard, the salty sea air tingly wetly on his exposed skin. He looks out toward the sea. The new lands, the battles, the fragile mortality. Any day could be the day that you die.


	6. hold me down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter today, sorry.

I sit on a pew of the new church, in the front row gazing up at the carved depiction of the crucifixion, I contemplate. Jesus glares down at me, waiting for me to decide. I play with my fingers, fidgeting in this holy place where the newly exposed bones of my dead brothers rot beneath the stone floor. My brothers, those words sound so strange now, are these priests still my brothers? They would not be if I left, and some of them I have grown fond of, the younger ones who fear their own admiration of me, brother John, who has always been patient with me, and now Aeon, who... I never would've guest. It's them or Ragnar, and Ragnar...  
I sigh and sink my face into my hands.   
'Still Struggling with your concious, brother?' another voice behind me, though this one isn't Aeon's, this time the voice is drooling and sinister, dripping with sadistic intent.   
I only lift my head far enough to name my intruder, 'brother Lucas.', this won't be good.  
Brother Lucas is a formidable figure in this monastery, no one is completely sure how long he's been here, all we know is that if it weren't for brother John, brother Lucas would reign as the supreme tyrant. They all fear him, they avert their gazes when they see him in the corridors, keep low and make hastily in the other direction. All but I, I have faced far worse than an aging, pot bellied priest with a bad temper.   
He sits beside me on the pew and I feel his glare baring into my skull.   
'I saw you.' my spine tenses, curls, the vertebrae scraping against one another 'In the old church, you pervert.'.   
I try to regulate my breathing, hold fast, stay strong, this man cannot break me.  
'Oh...? Rouse you did it?' I drawl, looking up at him with a smirk and what I hope are deviant eyes, not scared ones.  
'Don't test me boy.' he growls like a grizzly, attempting to terrorise me, well two can play that game.   
'Why not?' I rest my thumb against my bottom lip, remembering how strongly it'd fascinate me whenever Ragnar did it. It draws attention, there's reason, purpose, an action with thoughtless intent.  
His face scrunches is disgust, this game won't work on him. 'What would our divine father think of you, Athelstan? Degrading yourself, and to the dream of another man's flesh at that?'.  
'If our divine father made me then it would be hypocritical of him to blame me for what I am.' I'm quite pleased with that, I'm surprised I didn't think of it earlier.   
'You think god is unfair? That the divine lord should pardon your despicable behaviour?'  
'Why not? He's pardoned yours.' Lucas seems somewhat affronted and I hold back a smirk of satisfaction.   
'Ragnar, that is his name, correct?'. No. We're not going there, pull me apart at the seams, judge me, hate me, but don't bring him into this. 'Ragnar is the name of the man you lust after...?' he presses and I bite.   
'Oh yeah, big guy, gorgeous, pretty cock.' I run my tongue around my lips, my mouth involuntarily waters, I really am a pervert, hungry and wanting. I never knew the taste but I swear I can remember it.   
'A Viking?'  
'A Viking king.' I can't tell him more, he isn't allowed to know Ragnar, he's mine.   
'Why is it you think you love him?' Lucas inches closer, eyes squinting as if to see inside me, found out what I'm made of.   
'Because I do.'  
'But you don't have a reason?'  
'I do not expect someone like you to understand love, Brother.'   
A chill breeze passes through, disturbing the ash on the floor, it swirls around our ankles.  
'Yours is not love, you naive child, what you feel is an abomination, an affront unto the lord.'  
'It's love! It's human!' I exclaim in a fit of passionate indignation. What I feel is more than just sin, more than shallow lust.  
He breathes out exasperated, grips my wrist with a wrinkled, slimy hand, 'you need help, Athelstan.'.  
'No, brother, I need a fat Viking cock.' I snap impatiently, I'm growing tired of this. What am I doing here? I want to go home. Where is my home? Is it across the sea? Is it here? Is it in a breathless oblivion? I've always been partial to blood reds and pristine blacks.   
Perhaps that would be easier than choosing, I hate my god, but I was raised to love him, and I saw him, he's real and calling, he's judging and wrong but he is good.   
Ragnar has done so much sin in his time of living, slaughtered innocence, robbed and tortured, and led me astray. How can I love such a brutal creature, more beast than man?  
'Athelstan. It's not too late for you, I can save you.'  
'I don't want to be saved.' I whimper, but not with certainty. Is it impossible to live in both worlds? Yes, the answer is yes.  
I must choose, either choice will bring me both pain and pleasure, I must choose which is worth more, my heart or my soul?  
'You do, brother. This isn't you talking, this is the devil, that Viking poisoned you, tormented you, turned you from all that is good and put your hand in Satan's.'   
'Vikings don't believe in the devil.' I think of Loki.  
'Brother, I beg you, before you do something you'll regret, just walk with me. I will show you the truth.'  
I look to Jesus on his cross, blood trickling down his face from the thorn crown mutilating his scalp. I need to leave this place. I let Lucas haul me to my feet by my elbow, I'm so numb, so tired, this war inside me wasting me away.


	7. live, fight, die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter but i plan to post another by this afternoon.

The sea is surprisingly calm, almost still. Ragnar should be at the stern, barking orders and setting an example for Bjorn, instead he's in the belly of the beast, rowing alongside his men. It's hard work, his muscles ache and groan, knuckles white and mouth dry, but it's good, it's something he can focus on. Some of his men are even grateful for his help.   
Floki dances between the rowing benches, laughing manically and whispering strange things into the shells of salt crusted ears. The Kohl around his eyes is thick and ready for battle.  
'Have a rest.' Rollo commands the warrior beside Ragnar, then takes his place at the end of the oar.  
Ragnar doesn't say anything, he tries to keep pace with his brother but soon gives in and releases his side of the oar.   
'So, what do you suppose we'll find in the lands west of west?'  
'That's a poor excuse for seeking me out, brother.'  
'Fine, I'll get straight to the point, shall I?'  
Ragnar raises an eyebrow, he does not need to appease his brother, he is king.   
'I know we haven't seen eye to eye lately, so maybe we should level with each other here and now.'  
'On what matter, brother?' Ragnar growls impatiently.   
'On what we will be doing in the west. The warriors want blood, Ragnar, as much as they want plunder and women. It's been too long since they've felt the thrill of battle, too long since they washed their hands in blood, too long since brothers and sisters have died and joined Odin in Valhalla.'  
It has been too long, Ragnar misses battle as much as his men do, and he is as ready to die as he'll ever be, old and broken, if this is to be his last raid he will go out with a sword in his hand and a battle cry on his lips. And Athelstan's face in his eyes.   
Sometimes he hopes they can be reunited in death, but he doubts either his gods or Athelstan's one god would ever allow it.  
'So they will have death, we will raid without mercy and take as we please, I will not hold us back.'  
'You promise? You won't even fall to mercy for the sake of some priest?'  
A swell of anger, indignation that tastes like bile, he brings the sharp of his blade to his brother's throat in a delicate kiss. Rollo, to his credit, doesn't stop rowing, even as a dribble of blood trickles down his neck.   
Ragnar smiles maliciously and speaks in a hushed tone, 'I made a mistake, brother, I do not make the same mistake twice. Now do not forget I once spared your life once, do not make me think that was a mistake.'   
The minute but present reddening across Rollo's cheeks as his eyes cast down in shame makes Ragnar infinitely happy. He loves his brother, but he will not forgive him for the betrayal, or for murdering his friends.  
'I see you're fine here, I should go command my ship.' he abandons Rollo at the oar, at least the hard work will do some good to quell his brother's anger. However Ragnar's anger is now a ferocious storm trapped within his bones, begging to be let out so that it may spend it's fury on the world. He breathes deep and takes Lagertha in his arms for a tight hug, because whatever they once were to each other is now behind them and they have become one another's most trusted friend.   
'We always planned to conquer the west as husband and wife.'   
She huffs light-heartedly, 'Perhaps, but you never were good enough to be my husband anyway.'  
He smiles, 'No, I wasn't.'  
'… it seems Thor is happy with us, he is keeping the sea calm.'  
'No, not Thor, our daughter. She may have died but I know her spirit lingers, it is she who has granted us easy voyage.'  
Lagertha smiles, the memory of their daughter is not as painful as it once was, she takes Ragnar's large hand in hers and squeezes, 'What's wrong?'  
'What? Nothing.'  
'Nice try. Now tell me.'  
'Lagertha...'  
'Athelstan? This would be the first voyage west since he left.'  
'I've just come from threatening Rollo about this, do not make me threaten you as well.'  
'You can try.'   
Ragnar has to curse himself, why must he be so fond of stubborn, feisty women?  
As Lagertha looks up at him with her piercing, expectant eyes he knows there is no escape, her grip on his hand has strengthened, holding him in place.   
'Fine, it still hurts.'  
'Go on.'  
'And travelling west again only makes me think of him more and I love him and hate him and I wish he was dead but I'd give anything to have him here beside me. Happy?'  
'No, but thank you.' she releases his hand, he shakes the blood back into it.  
'What do I do, Lagertha?' if anyone could tell him, it'd be her.  
'Live. Fight. Die.'


	8. the Katherine wheel

We exit the monastery and enter the neighbouring town, people bow their heads to us as they walk by. I still don't know where Lucas is taking me, he's remained silent and stern, walking a step before me. A figment of Ragnar walks beside me, his hand in mine, he's silently begging me to turn back, promising me that what my brother has to show me will not be good.   
I'm tempted to ask where are we going but amongst the throngs of townspeople it's probably better to keep my mouth shut.   
Heart or soul?  
I look to the ghost beside me, there in my mind, present and warning. I look to the sun and see god, watching and waiting.  
Heart or soul? Viking or priest?  
The town is a living creature churning me in it's gut, and now I know where Lucas is taking me.  
The town square.  
Everything happens in town square, festivals, battle preparations, executions, wedding celebrations, every nine days a brother from my monastery comes and preaches over a crowd of eager sinners.   
However today there is no festival, no preparations or celebration, nor a preaching brother.   
A platform has been constructed in the squares centre and atop it sits a Katherine wheel with mangled flesh still strapped to it. Lucas grips my wrist and drags me toward it, I can smell the rot from a yard away and I'm about to vomit, I'd forgotten how vile the scent of death is.   
The platform is stained red with sticky blood and bits of human gut are caught between the planks.  
I couldn't quite see before, but now I can, and I wish I had the mental capacity to rip my eyes out.  
Two female corpses are tied to the Katherine wheel, naked and laid head to toe. Their skin is beyond mutilated and their insides butchered, their genitals have be burned and destroyed by fire and stuffed into their mouths is sheep dung and weeds.  
I fall to my knees and spill the contents of my stomach down the side of the platform, I hear the townspeople stop, watch, whisper.  
'Tell me, Athelstan, why do you think I brought you here?'  
'Because you're a sick twisted fuck!' I exclaim breathlessly, clutching my stomach, ready to puke again. I don't care what the townspeople think.  
Lucas crouches beside me, wraps an arm around my shoulder and whispers into my ear menacingly, 'you know why this happened, don't you? Those two women were in league with the devil, they were lovers, found molesting each other in a barn. The villagers, being righteous, god-fearing folk, did what they had to to cast out their evil.'  
'Cast out their evil? What they did to them was evil.'   
'No Athelstan. That is the price of your sin.'  
No. My lord in heaven, is this really you? Is this your desire for those who go against your will? Is my sin really this bad?  
Lucas gets to his feet, surveys the watching crowd and addresses them with his great bellow, 'Oh townspeople, you good sons and daughters of our mighty lord! Before you is brother Athelstan, he has returned to you from across the sea where he was held and tormented by filthy pagans.' he pauses and the crowd murmurs.  
Oh no, Lucas plans to make an example of me and I'm a little busy having an identity crisis.   
Oh Ragnar, how can I love you if it is so wrong? I know you are a bad person but a good man, I know you are responsible for destroying everything I ever was and turning me away from my lord. But you own me, if I lose you then I walk this earth without a heart. But I'll get to keep my soul, I'll get to ascend to heaven.  
'And alas, sons and daughters, these pagans have led our Athelstan astray.'  
Disapproval, disgust, people spit to the ground. I look up to god.  
'But our Athelstan is strong, he escaped, he came home and he tried to regain the faith they robbed him of.'  
I didn't escape, they let me go willingly, with the exception of Floki and Rollo, who both wanted me dead, at least they had finally agreed on something.  
'But I'm afraid my dear brother has had some trouble keeping his religion, he is still holding onto the lies the pagans told him.'  
Booing from the crowd but I am so far away, looking into the eye of god.  
Heart or soul? Is it even my heart I have beneath my skin?  
'Do not taunt him, surely we must help him, save him from this treacherous road he has found himself on, are we not merciful children of god?'  
I think of the women strapped to the Katherine wheel, surely not.  
A cheer is raised which Lucas quickly shushes.   
'But first, the sinner must want to be saved.'  
Everything goes quiet, dead still, as if every person in the crowd is holding their breath.   
'What do you say, Athelstan?'  
Times up. Will it be your heart or your soul?  
Will I ever even see Ragnar again? And if I did what would happen? He's not here to tell me. I look to his ghost which has haunted me since I left him but even he has faded.   
This must be the darkest place, pitch black and empty, Ragnar is not here to fill the void and my holy father waits for me with open arms.  
Anything for light, anything for solace, I just can't go on like this, being in both worlds yet living in neither. 'Save me...' I whimper helplessly from my dark place.  
'Pardon?'  
I'll give him what he wants, tears streaming down my face but I have no strength to sob 'Save me!'.   
A roar of approval and this time Lucas is gentle as he helps me to my feet, 'come, brother, let me take you home.'  
It's nice to finally have a home.


	9. drunk Thor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> micro-chapter!

Thor thrashes with his hammer and several warriors are lost to the sea in the violent storm. What did they do to deserve this?  
When they reach the land west of west the ships sails are in tatters and their own bodies are haggard. They collapse onto the shore, kissing the sand and Ragnar will let them rest, but only for a night, he must live, fight and die, he has no time to rejoice.


	10. lost in flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little lazily done, sorry....

I have spent two days praying through a rough storm, Thor's thunder could not keep me from reuniting with my god. I am his son once more, Brother Lucas and Brother John are both pleased with my progress. Aeon does not blame me, but looks on me mournfully, this is not the choice he expected me to make. I can't blame him, I didn't think it'd end this way either. But I am content, my soul rests in comfort, I know my place in the world, even if I now have a gaping hole where my heart should be.   
Now when the younger priests ask me of my time with the Northmen I tell them to go pray, because the lord is the light they must hold onto to if they wish to remain whole.   
I admit more and more during confession, the sooner I confess the sooner I can let go of my past. I can put it behind me and be with my god. Some of the things I admit to make brother John gasp in shock horror, but he bids me to continue, he tells me my body will not be able to heal until I squeeze out all the poison. So I squeeze, even when it hurts, even when I choke on my words.   
I'm ready to let go. 

*****

So after a night sleeping, warming themselves and feasting on freshly killed woodland creatures, the Vikings rise in the dark before dawn and make way to a village Floki found when scouting the area.

*****

The long grass tickles his arms, his people are ready and neither the late-bedding townspeople nor the western knights guarding them have noticed yet. Lagertha and Bjorn crouch beside him at his right, Rollo at his left, his small army behind him, bodies heating and tensing in anticipation. All he needs now is for Floki to return and the raid can begin.  
He rubs the fertile soil between his fingers, day dreaming of a fine farm with plenty of livestock and forever flowering produce, of fine summer's sun and winters that do not set your soul in ice, all that could be found in these western lands, no wonder Athelstan was so eager to return.   
Giggling, then a lithe body lands on him and he shrugs it off with little enthusiasm.  
'How many?'  
'More than we expected, this might even be fun.'  
Ragnar nods, clasps Floki's shoulder firmly, 'thank you, brother.'  
Ragnar stands.  
Two western knight see him and he waves before turning to face his horde.  
He cries, 'I'll see you all in Valhalla!'. And the cry is raised, he turns and starts the charge, his people leaping forward.  
The shock on the westerners faces as he plunges his sword into their soft bodies, and sets their sleeping town in flames.


	11. Chapter 11

I stand at the alter, with a bowl of water resting in my palms. I'm laying atop the alter with a heavy body bearing down upon my own. I'm thrown against the alter and only just raise my sword in time to defend. The sound of the church quire singing their holy hymns. The sound of gasping, grunting and sobbing. The sound of steel against steel and the heavy breath of us fighting to the death. I'm living three lives all at once and I can't stop it, stop it, stop it.   
The doors of the church open and he's dressed up in white, bare foot, scrubbed clean and shaven, it doesn't look right. The doors to the church remain closed and he's naked, soaked in sweat and littered with markings of my ownership, he's never looked better. The doors to the church were kicked open a long time ago and they remain so, he's dressed in Viking leather and sheepskin, drenched to the bone with blood, he is as I've always known him.   
I can feel the weight of my god's gaze pressing on my back. I can feel him inside, pressing just a little further. I can feel his sword biting into my own, pressing me down till I'm on my knees.  
I'm decked out in holy robes, white and gold, godly, I'm clean, the back of my head is bold and my beard has been shaven away. I'm as bare as I was at my birth, apart from a fine sheen of sweat and several bruises and bites, my beard is long and my hair thick and full. I'm in my priest habit, which is caked with blood and mud, my bold patch is present and prominent and my beard is trim.   
He walks to the alter. He thrusts hard and deep. He throws his sword into mine with such force the metal sings.  
I feel the holy light, it's far more violent than I ever though it would be. I feel his body begin to tremble, his thrusts become sporadic and clumsy, I hold him tightly, look into his eyes. I feel his boot in my gut, I wheeze and my sword clatters across the floor.   
He's solemn. He's scared. He's angry.  
He kneels before me and I dip my thumb into the water I hold, then mark a cross on his forehead. I kiss his split lip and use my legs to sink him deeper into my body. I look up in time to see him thrust his sword through my chest.  
I tell him, 'this is the only way'. I tell him, 'it's okay, I love you'. I tell him, 'Ragnar... I'm sorry'.  
I wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just love dream sequences!


	12. fucking christians

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no actual hate on Christians, calm down, just going with the flow of the story

What is that awful noise? It sounds like battle, people are screaming and my nostrils are filled with the scent of fire. I jump to my feet and rush to answer the anxious knocking on my door.  
Brother Peter, brother Matthew and brother Atheldor. All three of them are younger than twenty and they're out of their wits with fear, they talk over each other, telling me the same thing in three different ways.  
We're under attack. An army ransacks the town.  
The three young brother's take me across the hall to brother Jonah's room, his has a window from which you can see the town.  
The town is up in flames.  
'What do we do, Athelstan?'  
I'm so still, I should be scared but I'm not, a part of me has been waiting for this for two very long years.  
'We pray.' says brother Lucas from the doorway and I remember I am a priest, I do not fight, I kneel before my god and prepare myself for death, we are not warriors, we are martyrs. And yet a part of me still wants to fight this.  
I don't.  
We follow brother Lucas to the church where our other brothers kneel with heads bowed and hands clasp around rosary, Brother John stands at the alter pronouncing the last rites over the future corpses.   
Surely we will die in a more dignified fashion. But to a Christian this death is what is dignified, to die helpless victims, that is what will make our lord happy.  
Peter, Brandon and Atheldor look to me briefly before taking their own places on the floor, brother Lucas shuts and bolts the church doors, against enemies, against townspeople seeking refuge from the onslaught, it seems so cowardly.  
Brother Lucas kneels and whispers his last rites beneath his breath, and how did this man ever scare me?   
God promises I will see him soon, but outside these church walls, within the howling wind, the battle cries and the wailing of the dying, I hear Odin calling.  
You made your choice, are you still sure it's what you want?  
I look at the trembling bodies on the floor, clutching their crosses and hoping their father will keep them, which he will. They have been such good sons, done what he asked, lived without ever actually being alive, denied themselves love and hate, pain and pleasure. They're so fucking tragic.  
Fucking Christians.  
'Brother Athelstan?' I haven't kneeled yet and it's drawn attention, John beckons me from the alter. 'Do not fear death, brother, in death we unite with our father.'  
'I am not afraid.'   
'Well that's good, now please...' the old man gestures to the floor.  
But I've changed my mind, my soul be damned, this life of penance is not worth it, this god is not worth it. I used to be alive, and this is what I gave it all up for?  
'I'm sorry, but I must decline your offer to join you in your wait for imminent death. I'm going to fight and die in the glory of battle so that I may join my father Odin in Valhalla. Because I'm a Viking.'   
All eyes look up at me, faces slack with shock, except Lucas, who's jowls contort in rage, and Aeon, who smiles and mouths “good luck.”.  
I throw the door open and race back to the dorms, there's just a few things I need.  
I doubt I'll see Ragnar in the living world again, but if Odin allows me into Valhalla then one day Ragnar will be there too and I can apologize and tell him I loved him from the moment I saw him. It's not much, but it's more than I deserve.  
I throw my mattress off of my bed and rejoice to see the items I hid beneath it once more. My battle ax, a piece of Viking gold with a depiction of Thor's hammer carved into its shiny surface, my leather boots, which were uncomfortable to lie on, and at last, my arm ring. I was going to throw these items into the sea to be true to the Christian god, I was fucking insane. I throw off my priest habit and all I have beneath are trousers, fighting shirtless as most Viking's do, if only I had some Kohl I'd paint the battle symbols onto my chest to win the gods favors. I equip myself with the boots, the ax, I tuck the coin behind my ear and return my arm ring to its rightful place on my wrist.   
I have no shield but I have no hope either.


	13. not so sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of Lagertha/Siggy, cause Siggy didn't die either, nope, never happened, enjoy fellow shield maidens and Valkyries

She took Siggy with her this time, over the last two years she had taught her the art of being a shield-maiden, and fed fuel to a new fire emerging between them. They are still new to being one another's lover, they stumble, they're clumsy, but they are both deadly loyal and protective, they've both lost so much. That's why they stay together, when the boat was tossed and turned in the storm they held each other tight to the mast, refusing to let go even as the wind stole their words and the sea soaked their bodies. Now they fight side by side, dancing their swords against those of the western knights. Lagertha wouldn't let Siggy out of her sight for anything, and the sentiment is returned in equal measure.  
Only Ragnar, Floki and Helga know of the affair between them, and they want to keep it that way, what they have is theirs and no one else is allowed to touch it.   
However Bjorn should know, but Lagertha hasn't found the right words to explain yet.  
She blocks a sword that was coming at Siggy, and Siggy cuts open the throat of the sword's master.   
It feels good to fight again, to know the heat of battle, to see Siggy put her newly developed skills to test with impressive efficiency.  
'I think I'm beginning to understand why you like this so much, my love.' Siggy shouts over the clashing with a laugh. Lagertha can only smile as she splits a townsman open crotch to skull.  
For this occasion, Siggy had painted Kohl around Lagertha's eyes and braided her hair with seashells and silver rings, she looks like a Valkyrie.   
They finish their last opponent together with two violent sword swings.  
'That's unfair. You've picked up swordsmanship quicker than I did.'  
Siggy smirks smugly, 'Come now, my love, you sound so bitter.'   
Lagertha gives her lover a shove in response and looks over her shoulder to the towns centre, 'come on, we should go help the men, gods know what trouble they've gotten themselves into without us.'   
'What? I don't even get a kiss for my bravery?'  
Lagertha grunts and grants her lover a kiss with just enough pressure to hurt, 'so needy.'   
Just as they turn and begin walking toward the centre they hear hysterical laughing from behind them. They both swing back round and raise their swords.  
A few feet away a dark haired man covered in blood throws down his ax and grins brilliantly. He's shirtless and in possession of a Viking arm ring, but he's not one of theirs.   
The man looks up to the sky, 'thank you, father Odin! You are my true god!'   
'Athelstan?' Lagertha gasps in disbelief.  
His gaze comes back to earth and he reaches out for them as they both hurl themselves toward him. They pounce upon him and take him to the ground in a bone crushing hug.  
He left them, he hurt them, but he's still family and they have both missed him terribly.   
'You're alive, you son of a whore!' Siggy exclaims as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.  
'You have a lot of explaining to do, young man.' Lagertha grumbles into his hair.  
Athelstan only sighs happily.   
They all get to their feet and help dust one another off.   
'I'm still waiting for that explanation...'  
Athelstan studies her for a moment before deciding it'd be safe to tell her. 'After I left you my boat was caught in a storm, I was thrown overboard and washed up on the beach by the monastery... I thought it was a sign...' he blushes deep red, like he is ashamed. It invites Lagertha's sympathy.   
'Anyway, after two years of fighting it I realised I don't belong here, I'm a Viking, my father is Odin and my future is Valhalla.'  
Siggy makes a whoop of delight, but Lagertha has one more important question, which she doesn't need to ask because, 'Is Ragnar here?', Athelstan asks anxiously.  
Siggy goes still and Lagertha answers him quietly, 'I've lost sight of him, but he's here somewhere...'  
'Good. Lagertha, I love him, I know he might just kill me but he has to know that first.'  
Lagertha looks to Siggy, who's worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, 'He won't kill you, Athelstan, we won't let him.'  
'Thank you, but I don't think even you could hold him back this time. Now, would you shield-maidens be so kind as to let me to fight by your side?'  
Both women smile, 'Of course, little brother.'


	14. upon instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of short chapters to come, i'll try to post more than one a day

They haven't hit the monastery yet, Ragnar is dreading it, he knows every little thing will remind him of Athelstan. He clashes his sword against western knights weapons and western townsmen's makeshift weapons, brooms and rakes and harvest scythes. He has sight of Bjorn, who stays close, more to protect him rather than help him Ragnar knows, and is ashamed of himself.   
He can't see Rollo but he can hear him, shouting and screaming with rage as he does. Lagertha and Siggy made their way into the east side of the town and are no longer in sight, Floki is taking his time entering every building in his path.   
There are far more knights than expected.  
Three of Ragnar's horde have been cut down, lucky them. People are running in all directions, the town is now a whirlpool of flame and blood and screams.   
Ragnar finds himself trapped in a circle of knights and all the old instincts flood back, swing, block, slash. Live, fight, die.  
His cheek is cut open, his own blood is refreshing in his parch dry throat. Fresh scars and falling body parts. It's a reminder, you have wanted to die but you thought yourself immortal, now you know differently, do you still wish to fall?  
Floki appears by his side and together they fight like they did in their youth, with a renewed vigor and thirst for chaos and victory.   
'Come, Ragnar, I have found the great hall where they stash their treasure.'  
Floki is brilliant and mad and his enthusiasm is a little intoxicating, Ragnar finds himself grinning ear to ear, 'Bjorn! Rollo!'.


	15. reunited

Reunited, the three of them cut through the town with impressive speed, two women and a shirtless ex-priest, it certainly took the westerners by surprise. They couldn't find Ragnar, but that was probably for the best, better to have their confrontation in private than on the battle field.   
They found several men from the raiding party, three of whom recognised Athelstan. He agreed to show them the hall where the townspeople hoarded their valuables in return for their forgiveness.


	16. artery

Outside the hall's side door Ragnar smiles to his brothers and son and counts to three. They thrust the door open, howling bloody murder, twenty knights wait for them inside, just enough to make it interesting. They each pick a man and raise their weapons.  
It's a mess. Blood and guts, mortal toil.  
One lucky shot. The point of a blade pierces Ragnar's side, it's painful, and he buckles over, but it will not stop him. He takes the head off his attacker and moves forward to the next. He hears a door fly open and more of his horde join the battle, all eager and angry. However it is a distraction that costs him dearly, his new opponent kicks his heel into Ragnar's wound causing him to collapse, forgetting how to breathe during the violent bolt of pain.  
A sword comes down and he defends with what little strength he has left. He loses his sword to the blow.  
Goodbye Athelstan.  
Live. Fight. Die. He's ready for the latter.  
It's execution style, he's on his knees. He can't defend because his wound is still sending fresh waves of pain through him, paralysing him.  
Oh father Odin, Thor, guide me to Valhalla, I'll invade the Christian heaven just as I invaded the west, I'll kill their god and give you his throne.  
The sword comes down.  
'Ragnar!'  
He knows that voice. The sword falls before him, as does his would-be executioner, the westerner has an axe through his skull.  
The knight falls like a curtain, revealing Athelstan behind him. Covered in blood and shallow cuts he's still Athelstan, Ragnar would know those eyes anywhere.  
He's dreaming, hallucinating, dead. This cannot be real. He tests the fabric of this reality by pushing his fingers into his own wound. It's so painful he is momentarily blinded by violent white light.  
When he regains his vision everything has gone still, all the westerners cut down. Stares go from Athelstan to him and back again.  
Athelstan offers his hand and how Ragnar aches to take it, but he can't.  
He has to kill him.

It's a question of who will try to kill me first, Rollo, Floki, or Ragnar. Bjorn won't, he knows better.  
Everything is still and Ragnar stares at my proffered hand dumbly, no one wants to be the first to speak but that's what we're all waiting for.  
It's Floki, of course, in a voice even more polluted with insanity then it was before, 'priest?'  
'My name is Athelstan, and I am a Viking.'  
Floki raises a brow and Rollo spits. But it doesn't matter, they don't matter.  
Ragnar finally looks up at me, his eyes wounded and open, exposing every feeling he's ever felt wrapped in a shroud of quavering uncertainty.  
I've never been more terrified in my entire life then when I saw him on his knees, clutching his bleeding side, his death coming for him. I was so far away, but I had to do something. I've never had good aim, how my axe hit target must be an act of Thor.  
'Ragnar...'  
'Everybody get out.'  
'Brother...'  
'Father, you're hurt.'  
'I'll live. Get out.'  
'Brother.'  
'Rollo... how many times must I threaten you before you realise we are not equals? Obey my word or be tried for treason. Now everybody get out. This is between me and him.' He masks his feelings behind a veil of stubborn anger and resilient pride, raises his chest and lets the wound bleed out, on his knees he is still a formidable figure.  
People make slow, cautious exits, as if one wrong step could cost them. Rollo snarls at me as he walks past to the door, Floki gets way too close and waves his fingers before my face, I don't see them, I see Ragnar and the rest of the world is just a dream. But I can feel Bjorn's gaze, so relieved, so sad, silently saying, “It's good to see you, but I wish we had never met you”.  
Lagertha is the last to leave, but before she closes the door on us she says, 'don't kill him, Ragnar, I'll never forgive you, and you won't either.'  
The door closes.


End file.
